


Little Fish

by ossapher



Series: The Macaroniverse -- Lams Modern AU [15]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Genderqueer Character, Other, unintentional misgendering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:05:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A triptych of happy coming-out stories for modern AU Lafayette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Fish

**Author's Note:**

> This work incorporates some of my [modern AU Lafayette headcanons](http://philly-osopher.tumblr.com/post/135164422744/modern-au-lafayette-headcanons) and takes place before Lafayette travels to America.  
>    
>  A note on naming: “Adrienne,” according to the Internet, can mean “the dark one.” Samar means “night-time storyteller” so while I didn’t keep the name, I tried to have some connection between the historical person and the modern AU character’s name.  
>    
>  And on historical parallels: Lafayette and Adrienne were in an arranged marriage, yet by all accounts were actually head over heels for each other. Lafayette was a bit of a country bumpkin (he moved to Paris as a teenager and didn’t really know how to act) whereas Adrienne was from one of the most powerful families in the entire country. She managed, along with their kids, to survive the Terror, which makes her an incredible, strategic badass of a survivor in my book.
> 
>  

_Of all the husbands in the world_ \--but that is an uncharitable thought, and Samar pushes it away. It is not Gilbert Lafayette’s fault that he was born and raised in France, or that he doesn’t understand basic table manners. Or that he’s embarrassingly bad at dancing. Or that he accidentally grievously insulted one of her uncles at their wedding.

(It _is_ his fault that he can’t shut his mouth about what he perceives to be injustice. And Samar grants, the world is full of injustice, and their country is no exception. But sometimes she wonders if he’s thinking of her at all when he opens his fool mouth--how her fate is irrevocably tied to his now, how she doesn’t have his voice, have his power, have his _damn dick_ ).

 _Focus on the positive_ , she commands herself. At least he has a nice smile. And he’s kind, and intelligent if you don’t count politics, and yes, the mixture of solicitousness and enthusiasm and rather startling talent he displayed on their wedding night had been… gratifying. She finds her cheeks growing hot at the memory and quickly pushes it away, and then she’s angry again, only now at herself.

She should go out for a walk, or go shopping--she’s going to work herself into a state if she’s not careful. She needs to put on a headscarf to go out in public, and has a whole armoire full to choose from. She storms into their bedroom, turns to the closet and slams into something. Arms steady her.

Oh, joy, it’s him. Just who she wanted to see right now.

“Sorry!” he says, setting her back on her feet. “I was just--”

He stops, uncertain. He’s standing in front of her armoire--her armoire, just for scarves, nothing else, the doors open, a scarf in his hands. He looks so guilty, like a puppy that knows it’s about to be kicked. What could he possibly have been doing?

Slowly she reaches towards him, frozen in place. She takes the scarf from his hands and gently shakes it out, unfolding the beautiful pattern. “You like... silk?”

He drops his eyes, face flushing. “I just thought… they’re pretty, I guess. I don’t know. It was stupid.”

On a whim she takes one end of the scarf in each hand and throws the middle around the back of his neck, pulling him a step towards her. He flinches like he’s been branded, shame and confusion in his eyes. Confusion and blank desperation and… hope?

“You wanted to try it on?” she asks-- a wild guess, but she’s not so isolated from the world that she hasn’t heard of such things. They’re supposed to be degenerate, base, but well… Here, in their bedroom, it seems… harmless. Sweet, even, in an odd way. Certainly nothing worth hurting anyone over.  

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he whispers, “Please, I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“Of course you won’t do it again,” she says, “These are mine. I can’t have you going through my things. But... if you let me know what you like, I can buy some especially for you.”

For a moment his face only registers blank shock, and then he’s lifting her off her feet, laughing and kissing her and twirling her in circles around the room.

“All right, all right!” she cries, giggling like an undisciplined child in spite of herself. He puts her down instantly, and she throws her arms around his shoulders--maybe because the room is spinning, maybe because she likes the feeling of his body against hers, slim and solid. She kisses him on the nose. “It’s impossible to stay angry with you, do you know that?”

“I’m very, very grateful you think so,” he says, his voice serious for once. “I only wish the whole world shared your opinion.”

“Mm,” she agrees. “You are a very small, very odd fish, and you are so, so far out of the sea.” She pities him a little, how lost he must feel, orphaned and alone in a strange country.

He lowers his eyes. “I’m sorry. I know that I… that I’ve made life more difficult for you. I’ll probably mess up again, without even realizing it. I only ask that you have patience.”

“I can do that,” Samar says, kissing him again, just so she can see that smile. _I must be completely insane_ , she decides, _but I am glad you are mine, of all the husbands in the world._


	2. Sweetheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got a tumblr request from jewishdragon (Tuiteyfruity here on AO3) for modern AU Lafayette + "profane." Warnings for mild internalized transphobia and general gender-related confusion. 300 words.

There are many things Martha Washington does not tolerate, messiness, disrespect, profanity, obscenity, and shoes in the house among them. She may be kind but her house is a shrine to the patron saint of good Southern housekeeping, and Lafayette doubts even the most troubled of souls would dare cross her even once.

Still, this apple-cheeked matriarch allows him into her home and her heart, though he is hardly a conventional guest: prince of a suspect nation, foreigner, Muslim. And if only that were all! But one day he spills out the truth–that he doesn’t always feel male, or female, that most of the time he just doesn’t know, that he’s lost and confused and needs to talk to somebody before he loses his gosh-darned (“goddamn” is Not Allowed) mind, that sometimes he worries this ambiguous existence is sinful, is profane-–

“Shh, shh,” Martha says, enveloping him in a very soft hug, as he buries his face in her shoulder. Martha’s hugs are superior to just about anything, for crying, and months’ worth of pent-up emotion spills out of him, but he’s not afraid–-in Martha’s arms he is secure. He’s not falling apart so much as allowing accumulated sadness and pain to leave his body, and she lets him, not saying a word. After several long minutes, she asks, “Sweetheart, would I allow anything sinful or profane into this house?”

“No, ma’am,” Lafayette says at once.

“But you’re here, aren’t you?”

Lafayette lets out a hiccuping sob. “I’m here.”

“You’re here.” She rocks back and forth gently, rubbing circles over his back. “You’re right here and you’re welcome right here.”

“Oh,” Lafayette says, getting the tears under control, “okay. Thank you, Martha, thank you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” says Martha, squeezing him tight before letting go, “you have nothing to thank me for.”


	3. Rockwell Never Saw Me Coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for WhatEvenAreFandoms <3
> 
> As always, George Washington = Chris Jackson

“That’s right, straight on the grill,” Washington says, as Lafayette lowers the hamburger meat. There’s an instant sizzle and a mouth-watering smell, and Lafayette looks at Washington for confirmation. He nods, and Lafayette quickly adds the next few patties to the grill, spacing them evenly over the hottest portion. “Well done, son,” Washington says, clapping him on the shoulder, and Lafayette winces.

“Thank you,” he says, to cover it up. “And now we close the top?”

“Right,” Washington says, so Lafayette lowers the lid of the grill. “And we wait for three, maybe four minutes. At that temperature you don’t want to overdo it. But you don’t want to flip too early, either. One flip. That’s all.”

“One flip only. Got it.” Lafayette takes a moment to appreciate the moment: bees patrol around the lilac bushes; back on the porch, Patsy and Martha giggle and play with the dog (whose name, inexplicably, is Madame Moose); the crickets are just starting to chirp in the half-light. “You know Norman Rockwell?”

Washington looks amused. “I’ve heard of the man.”

“Did he live around here?”

Washington snorts. “Are we really so stereotypical?”

“No, no! I like Norman Rockwell!” A moment later he realizes Washington isn’t offended, was making a joke, but he still feels obscurely like he owes him… not an apology, maybe, but something. “Thank you for getting the halal meat.”

“Of course. We want you to be able to eat with us.”

“Well. Thank you. It couldn’t have been easy to find.”

Washington waves a hand in dismissal. “Don’t mention it. We’re glad to have you here, son.”

Lafayette turns back to the grill so Washington can’t see his face. “Should I flip them now?”

“Not quite yet. You get a feel for these things, after a while.”

Quiet falls between them and stretches to a few seconds. Washington’s probably just enjoying the evening breeze, but Lafayette needs to fill the silence. “Is this a… a cultural tradition, in America, then? Is this some recipe everybody knows?”  

“I wouldn’t call meat, salt, and pepper a recipe per se,” says Washington, his voice tinged with amusement. “But yes, a weekend cookout, with family… I guess you could call it a tradition. Fathers teaching their sons to grill,  passing little tricks down… huh. You’re right. That’s exactly what it is.” A moment’s pause. “Ready?”

“What?”

“Open ‘er up. The first side’s done.”

“Oh!” Lafayette throws the grill open, takes the spatula Washington offers him, and flips the patties in the order he put them down, so they’ll all have about the same cook time. He doesn’t know if that matters, but he wants to go a good job. They look very nice, and they smell even better.

“You’re good at that,” Washington says. “I’d say you’d done it before.”

“Well, it is a lot easier than flipping a crepe,” Lafayette says, with a sly grin, and Washington laughs.

“I never could flip a crepe,” he confesses. “You’ll have to teach me.”

“I look forward to it,” Lafayette says, and they stand there grinning until Washington remembers that he hasn’t opened the buns or the cheese yet, and both need to go on the grill soon.

“Butter these lightly,” he says, handing Lafayette the package of buns, “and then put them on the far left side of the grill, the low heat. Otherwise they’ll soak up the ketchup and nobody wants that.”

The buttering distracts Lafayette from the cheese. “You have to melt it directly onto the patty while it’s still on the heat,” Washington says, as Lafayette, at his left elbow, finds places for all the bread on the grill. “Critical step, occasionally neglected even to this day. Never trust a man who doesn’t melt the cheese.”

“Are you sure that’s cheese?” Lafayette says mournfully, as Washington drops a square onto the last patty. It melts almost instantly; there’s no going back now. It’s probably just as well: had he knowingly allowed the angry yellow square to be placed on his food, he probably would have had to forfeit his French citizenship.

“It is part of the experience,” Washington says.

“Then I will eat it,” Lafayette says, beginning to mentally prepare himself. It’s like the time after he moved back to Gatar, and he had to eat _harees_ at his wedding even though the idea of meat in a porridge seemed completely bizarre. He’d learned to like _harees_ eventually. Maybe he’ll learn to like this.

“You can bring the cheese next time, if you want,” Washington grins.

“You joke, but I will take you up on that.” He’ll have to wait until he tastes the meat in its proper context of bun and toppings, but he’s already got some ideas. Maybe gruyere, the _other_ Swiss cheese. Maybe even… camembert.

“Right, time to take these guys off the heat. And you’re welcome to, son,” Washington says, and Lafayette winces, because that’s… what? The third time tonight? The fourth? It didn’t used to bother him so much— some days, he’s still feels like he’s glowing every time he hears the word. But tonight it’s rubbing him raw.

“Don’t call me son,” he says, and he’s shocked at the pent-up anger in his own voice. Washington freezes where he stands, midway to transferring the first patty to a plate. “I’m sorry, I— I should explain myself, I—” Lafayette’s voice cracks like he’s twelve.

Washington sets the plate down hurriedly and lays a gentle hand on his arm. “You don’t need to explain. I’m sorry. I talked to Martha the other day. She said that… well, I should have realized. I shouldn’t have kept using that word after I… after I knew. I… I wasn’t sure that you disliked it, and...”

First comes the constricting panic in his chest— _Washington knows—_ but a moment taken to breathe dispels it. He’s here, Martha and George want him here, and George is treating him no differently than he did before. But then the thought that Washington might never call him “son” again hits Lafayette in a wave of pain. “No, I mean… I am not sure what I mean. Part of me _does_ like it, I think because—because I enjoy… being like your family?” His cheeks are burning. He loves Washington like a father, and knows Washington knows that, but it’s still rather intense putting that feeling into words.

“Lafayette,” Washington says, eyes serious, “as far as I’m concerned, you _are_ family. Whatever words we use.”

Before he quite knows what he’s doing Lafayette flings his arms around the man. Washington chuckles and hugs him back.

“What about pronouns?” Washington asks when they pull apart, his voice low. “Would you prefer she? They?”

“Nothing in public,” Lafayette says, his mouth suddenly dry. “And I would rather not have you switching back and forth. The chance of a slip, or of someone overhearing… you understand, my life and freedom may be at stake, when I return home.” He doesn’t add that he doesn’t trust Jacky or Patsy to accidentally give it away; he doesn’t want to indirectly insult Washington’s stepchildren. “‘He’ is easier. And it is… less… than a word like ‘son.’ I don’t know why.”

“Understood.” Washington looks very grave, the blood drained from his face. Maybe Lafayette shouldn’t have mentioned the peril of his position back in Gatar—he hates to worry him—but it was essential to let him know how serious the situation was. “Thank you. I’m honored that you trust me with this.”

“To the ends of the earth,” Lafayette replies, and that’s when one of the buns catches fire. Lafayette cries out, leaping back, and Washington calmly flicks it onto a plate and puts a bowl over it. When he lifts up the bowl a few seconds later the fire is out.

“Everything all right there, hon?” Martha calls from the porch.

“The situation is under control,” says George. Lafayette giggles helplessly, clapping a hand over his mouth. Now that it's over—now that they've talked—it feels like he’s escaped something huge and dark and dangerous, like he could fly if he wanted to. _F_ _amily, whatever words we use_ echoes in his mind. His heart is racing.

“Are you alright?” Washington is peering at him, slight trepidation in his eyes.

“ _Oui_ , yes, I’m fine.” Lafayette wipes his eyes with a half-laugh. “I’m very happy, just give me a moment.”

“Gotcha.” Washington rescues the last few patties and takes them over to the fold-out table on the lawn. Lafayette stands and breathes. They sky’s gone dusky purple, the lilacs tossing in the breeze. He crosses the lawn and takes the seat across from Jacky, next to George, and Madame Moose squeezes under the table to lay on his feet.

“This smells wonderful,” Martha says, once everybody’s settled. “Let’s eat!”

(If the burgers are slightly overdone, well, nobody complains.)


End file.
